The Art of Evading Monsters

It was a dark and stormy night — well, there were no storms, but it was night and it was dark outside. Because that’s how night works. As I naively turned on the television to watch Saturday Night Live that fateful evening, I repeatedly noticed several advertisements, each pointing to a horror I did not wish to indulge in. I thought the ads would stop after a few runs — but they didn’t. Every intermission they seemed to appear more numerous, more vicious, ensnaring my soul. I was intrigued, yet so conflicted by the danger displayed that I was nearly driven insane. I decided it might be best to suppress the dread lurking in my mind, ignoring it and moving on. But the thought would not leave my mind. The shadowy images, the manipulation, the peril clawed at my interest and seeped into my thoughts. It felt like a trap. I decided to turn on Netflix to find solace in one of my favorite television programs, but little did I know, it was lurking, staring daggers back at me in the highlights. It glared into my feeble eyes, drawing me closer to its poison so insidiously that I had no choice but to read its terrifying title; Monsters: The Lyle and Erik Menendez Story.
It was a trap. I couldn’t even look at them without falling victim to their sinister scheme. I knew it would be draining to invest my energy in their overdramatized toxin, but it was too mesmerizing. The next day I couldn’t even help researching the original murder case as the show’s claws sank deeper into my skull. I asked my friends if they were aware of these horrors, disturbed as I was, but it seemed I alone was being tormented. I began to believe that it perhaps wasn’t as malicious as my mind made it to be. My cognitive dissonance tormented me, and for a moment I was tempted to indulge myself in the terrible temptations before me — but I couldn’t; It was a Ryan Murphy producer trap, the simping era of Dahmer all over again — no, worse; now there were two of them. It racked my brain into shambles. I battled for my moral sanity, stalked by the show, invading my intimate, inner consciousness.
Enough was enough. I had to stop. Still, I kept returning to the TikTok rabbit hole, devouring their content. Why did I do this? Stockholm syndrome; I couldn’t leave even though I wanted to. I told myself I needed to get away from them, to detox. I hadn’t even seen the show, and their purchase on my mind was still so strong. It didn’t help that everywhere at school, people praised the show; in the cafeteria, I heard the faint hymn of “Blame It on the Rain” by Milli Vanilli throwing me into violent convulsions as I faintly wept. The earworm still makes me wail.
I saw them in everything. And they found me everywhere. On YouTube, in my classmates’ conversations, the absurd fan edits. Everywhere, their six-packs and cut jawlines — it was so cursed and wrong. Ryan Murphy, you did this to me with glee, and somehow plagued me again in a bio-drama series I didn’t watch a single episode of. What sort of black magic is this? The cycle would not stop spiraling until I defeated my monsters. But, there was no way for me to get rid of them. I was stuck as the darkness closed in nearer around me. My mind is still spiraling out of control without a path to flee as I lose more of my senses to the pure consumption of the show’s content. I need help.